This, written today has no point, but I had the idea of "public" and playful writing in mind:
Let me start over, let me repeat. I need to look at the screen, even if I want to close my eyes. Closing my eyes helps erase the mind so that the picture goes black and blank and black again. Then sometimes the scene is white, the void and the absence is what actually makes the completion, the presence. Writing is fun. Time is fun. Writing takes time, and time is money but what is the relationship with writing and money?
Can we somehow transcend time so that money, appearances and facades are irrelevant? Maybe the journey is cyclic and we do go back to the beginning. Maybe linearity is constructed and commodified. Maybe cycles and lines co-exist. Maybe….
I have so many questions about the world
This other blurb was written sometime in the past two weeks:
Art is dead this thought instilled in my head
yet i still return to the word, the spoken word
when other people's troubles crumble my world
the pain of realizing that i've been selfish
and only functioned within the realms of my head
now listening to the pain, the memories of strain
how do i come to seek out when i've only looked in
this paradox has strained my relationships thin
in confused volatile thoughts i sink
still the little girl scared shitless to swim
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